In my experience, every single person who has mastered the great art of successful aging has had an inner grit. Not necessarily with any bravado or flourish, but with a steely determination to look loss straight in the face without blinking.

OK, you just bought a jar of kosher pickles and you're dying to put one on the burger you just barbecued. You should be able to just unscrew the lid easily, remove the juicy pickle from its briny bathwater and slap it on the meat. This used to be easy. Not anymore.

A few weeks ago I turned 56. To commemorate and celebrate, I ran 5.6 miles around Central Park. It felt good knowing I could run that distance and still be fit enough to join my husband and daughters at a birthday dinner downtown a few hours later. That's a sea change from when I turned 50.

Growing up, I remember Auntie Honey harping constantly about almost everything. Her most bitter comments were about her mother -- my grandmother -- a slight, sweet, extremely religious woman who had lost her mind and didn't know where she had left it.

Among the indignities of getting older, the minute I turned 50 I started getting insulted by my mail.

According to some social scientists, the older we get, the more our personal ethics matter. It probably has something to do with the desire most of us...

At other ages I was defined by what I did. Schoolboy, father, husband, stockbroker, writer. Now, if there was only one thing you could know about me -- just one -- I would choose that you know I'm 85.

Senior moments, increasing isolation, an inability to grow and change -- these are just a few of the common stereotypes about what people can expect l...